


If You're Going to Hit It

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Switching, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4952593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'You can’t take it,' Iwaizumi says again, louder, lower, feeling the words that are to come turning themselves over into heat against the inside of his ribcage." Iwaizumi attempts patience and Oikawa demonstrates none at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You're Going to Hit It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuggestiveScribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuggestiveScribe/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Until It Breaks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4931872) by [SuggestiveScribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuggestiveScribe/pseuds/SuggestiveScribe). 



“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa groans, the lilt of his voice made somewhat less comprehensible from the way his face is pressed against the sheets. “ _Faster_.”

“Jesus,” Iwaizumi growls by way of response, fitting his focus into a glare against the back of Oikawa’s neck, the tangle of hair clinging to the sweat on his skin. “Be  _patient_.”

“I don’t want to be patient,” Oikawa whines, petulant and desperate at once while Iwaizumi thumbs open the bottle of lube and lets it spill slick and cool across his fingers. Oikawa can’t see what Iwaizumi’s doing with his face pressed down to muffle his voice against the sheets; luckily, this means he can’t see the way Iwaizumi’s hands are shaking with the tension of anticipation, can’t see the strain along his spine coming through in tremors at his fingertips as much as in the aching heat of his cock. “I want to be  _fucked_.”

“I’m working on it,” Iwaizumi hisses, growling low in imitation of anger and grabbing hard at Oikawa’s hip so he can offer the pressure of pretended frustration in the form of fingerprints on pale skin. “You’re not ready for me yet.”

“I can take it,” Oikawa says as Iwaizumi slides slick fingers across his entrance, bracing a hold at Oikawa’s hip to abort the desperate backwards rock he knew would come at this temptation of pressure. Oikawa whines against the sheets, his fingers dragging across the blankets; Iwaizumi can see the flex of elegant hands, can watch the way Oikawa’s wrist angles back at the force into a line of accidental beauty.

“No,” Iwaizumi says, “you can’t” and pushes in with one finger, slow, so slow the sound Oikawa makes is more protesting than satisfied. He opens up easy, as quick to relax to this as he is to complain about Iwaizumi’s pace, like he’s trying to prove his own point via the heat of his body clenching tight around Iwaizumi’s finger as the other slides in deeper.

“I can,” Oikawa insists, trying again to rock back and succeeding in nothing except sliding over the friction of the sheets beneath them. Iwaizumi tips himself sideways to let his weight settle against Oikawa’s knee and pin one leg in place; the angle frees his own leg, lets him kick out to brace Oikawa’s other foot to stillness while he pushes in as deep as he can reach and pauses to give Oikawa a moment to adjust.

“You can’t take it,” Iwaizumi says again, louder, lower, feeling the words that are to come turning themselves over into heat against the inside of his ribcage. Oikawa whines, starts to shake his head, and Iwaizumi raises his voice so the sound crashes and drowns whatever coherency Oikawa might have offered. “Not the way I’m going to fuck you.”

Iwaizumi can feel the exact moment Oikawa processes what he’s just said. It’s in the sudden slackness in his thighs, the way he stops fighting for more; it’s in the flash of tension as Oikawa tightens around him, his body clenching involuntarily at the idea Iwaizumi’s words offer. Iwaizumi grins victory at Oikawa’s shoulders, draws his hand back by an inch, and by the time Oikawa finds the words to gasp “ _Iwa-chan_ ” into heat in the air he’s thrusting back in, a slow push no less forceful for how deliberately drawn-out it is.

“I told you,” he says, the sound rolling itself into a growl he doesn’t intend, resonance seeping into his throat from the heat in his veins. “I’m going to  _break_  you.”

“ _Please_ ” Oikawa says, sounding like he’s cracking already, and Iwaizumi shifts his hand, presses in against the slick-soft heat of Oikawa’s body. Oikawa’s spine curves, his back arching involuntarily against the sheets as his head tilts back, and the sound he makes -- a low groaning thing with only fragments of his usual teasing sweetness -- shudders itself into Iwaizumi’s veins with a promise that flushes his cock harder even than it was, that urges him to more haste than he ought to demonstrate.

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi says, hearing the word rumble meaningless at his ears as he stretches Oikawa open against the press of his finger, as his gaze traces the sleek curve of Oikawa’s spine down to his hips, over the curve of his ass, to the slick catch of his body tightening against Iwaizumi sliding into him. “Like you did to me.” He thrusts in again, deep enough for the other to shudder at the intrusion, enough that Oikawa tries to angle his pinned knees wider to press himself closer to the bed, like he’s offering himself to Iwaizumi’s touch. “But  _at home,_  on a  _bed_ , because I’m not an  _exhibitionist_.”

“Oh?” Oikawa says, finding dangerous sugar for his tone from reserves Iwaizumi didn’t think he had left. He turns his head, looks back over his shoulder; his eyes are shadowed, his mouth open on the pace of his breathing, but his lips catch on a grin, his eyelashes flutter into suggestion. “Really? Because yesterday you seemed--”

“Shut up,” Iwaizumi growls over whatever Oikawa was about to say, draws his hand back so he can drag a second fingertip against Oikawa’s entrance. Oikawa’s gaze slides out of focus, his mouth letting go of words to drop open on a groan of want, and Iwaizumi rumbles incoherent appreciation, stares at Oikawa’s face as he presses a pair of fingers into him. Oikawa’s shoulders tense, his eyelashes flutter shut as his head falls forward; Iwaizumi’s heartbeat stutters on heat as his attention tries to go fifteen ways at once and only finds the weight of eyelashes against a pale cheek, the unstudied gasp of breathing past parted lips. “Shut up, Oikawa.” He knows he should go slowly -- his own words are still printed as afterimages in the air -- but it’s hard to do, hard to stay focused when Oikawa is opening to his touch like he’s made a life’s study of this, when every stroke Iwaizumi takes with his fingers draws Oikawa’s breathing into an anxious whimper that says  _more_  without any need for words under it.

“Fuck,” Iwaizumi says, succinct with heat, and tightens his fingers against Oikawa’s hip in an attempt to brace himself. He ought to slow down, he knows he should, Oikawa needs to catch his breath and he needs to find his composure, but he’s aching through all his skin like he’s burning from the heat in his veins outward, he can feel the tension in his cock curling up his spine and taut against the back of his thighs and he  _wants_ , wants with a desire too strong to be contained within an object more specific than the whole person in front of him. He spreads his fingers wider, drags his touch against the inside of Oikawa’s body, and Oikawa groans, tilts his hips forward in a reflexive bid for friction that cracks whatever restraint Iwaizumi was yet holding to.

“Shit,” he growls, except it comes out as a gasp, it makes him sound breathless and as shaky as his hand as he slides free of the other. Oikawa whines, shoves his hips down against the bed without even an attempt at subtlety, and Iwaizumi drags him back, gains inches of traction while he fumbles with the lube to spill cold slick over his cock. “You’re not ready.”

“I am,” Oikawa pants, drags his fingers into a fist on the sheets, reaches up with his free hand to shove a palm against the wall and push himself backwards. Iwaizumi doesn’t look at the strain in Oikawa’s shoulders any more than he looks at the inadvertent beauty of his fingers spread wide against the pale wall; he’s busy, he’s focused, he’s stroking himself slick and moving closer, untangling his leg from Oikawa’s to settle between the other’s knees instead. Oikawa arches his back, forms temptation in the curve of his spine, and Iwaizumi’s throat tightens on a groan, his focus skidding even as he tightens his hold at Oikawa’s hip and looks down to line himself up.

“You’re not,” Iwaizumi says again, and he tilts his weight forward, braces himself against Oikawa’s hip and starts to push into him, talking louder over the appreciative whimper Oikawa offers as Iwaizumi’s cock stretches him open. “But I’m going to fuck you anyway.” Oikawa’s drawing tight around him, Iwaizumi can’t tell if the motion is deliberate or reflexive; he looks up, away from the slick drag of his cock sinking into Oikawa’s body, stares at the flex of muscle in the other’s shoulder from that bracing arm at the wall. He reaches up with slick fingers, closes his hand at that tense shoulder; when he pulls he drags Oikawa away from the wall and back onto him with one motion, listens to the whine Oikawa makes as his fingers reach for stability Iwaizumi doesn’t intend to let him have. Oikawa’s tight around him, the friction so much Iwaizumi has to fight to catch his breath, but when he rocks back it’s only by an inch, just enough motion so he can thrust forward to pin Oikawa down to the bed with the force of the movement.

“Fuck,” Iwaizumi says, the word coming without thinking, his fingers tightening on Oikawa’s shoulder to brace him against the bed as he draws back again, feels the drag and burn of the movement spark electricity all up his spine. “You’re so goddamn tight.”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whines against the bed, hitting some resonance between a purr and a groan. “Harder.”

“Shut up,” Iwaizumi tells him, thrusts forward with a sharp dig of his hips that makes Oikawa’s back flex, that makes Oikawa’s breathing grate into a moan. “You can’t take it any harder.”

“ _Harder_ ” Oikawa insists, shoving at the bed like he’ll be able to get traction against the unbreakable force of Iwaizumi’s hands holding him still. “Come on, Iwa-chan, give it to me.”

“Shut  _up_ ,” Iwaizumi growls, rolling his weight forward to fuck as deep in Oikawa as he can get. His arms are tense with the effort of holding himself up and bracing Oikawa in place but he doesn’t shift his hold or let go; better to have Oikawa right where he wants him, to brace him against the momentum of Iwaizumi’s forward motion. Oikawa shudders, the whole-body tremor clenching tight against Iwaizumi’s cock, and Iwaizumi doesn’t try to call back the groan in his throat, heat given sound with the satisfaction of friction.

“Don’t be greedy,” he orders, finding a rhythm that catches at Oikawa’s breathing, that sends a jolt through Oikawa’s shoulders with each forward thrust he takes. “You always think you can take more than you can.”

“I  _can_ ,” Oikawa pants, the claim completely undone by the way he has to gasp for air between the words, the way Iwaizumi can see ripples of reaction tensing and releasing across his shoulders, can watch the shift of lean muscle under sweat-slick skin. “I want it, I  _want_  it, fuck me  _harder_.”

“You idiot,” Iwaizumi says, feeling the grate of Oikawa’s voice strike sparks into his blood, listening to the slick sound of their bodies coming together with each forward motion of his hips. “If I went any harder you’d pass out.”

Oikawa makes a desperate noise, a groan made frantic to fit between the overheated static of his breathing, and Iwaizumi can hear the reply on the sound alone, is growling negation even as Oikawa reaches for enough coherency to form “ _Hajime_ ” in a tone that is a plea and a moan at the same time.

“Fuck,” Iwaizumi manages, curves in closer without thinking, like the sound of his name on Oikawa’s lips is a magnet to draw him in closer, to flush his body tense with a surge of responsive heat. His hand slips, his hold on Oikawa’s shoulder giving way as the other arches under him and angles himself up off the bed with more presence of mind than Iwaizumi expected to press his back flush to Iwaizumi’s chest. Oikawa’s radiant with heat, his skin hot even against the burn of Iwaizumi’s blood, and Iwaizumi growls into the tangle of Oikawa’s hair, lets the other’s hip go to splay his fingers over his stomach instead and drag him in closer.

“I told you to shut up,” Iwaizumi says, breathing steam off Oikawa’s skin, pausing long enough to shift his knee to the outside of Oikawa’s so he can get better traction for the rhythmic force of his thrusts. Oikawa is shaking against him, the strain of holding himself up and bracing against the other’s momentum enough to shudder through him and under Iwaizumi’s fingertips; Iwaizumi groans against his shoulder, turns his head in close to press his lips to the back of Oikawa’s neck. Oikawa whimpers, head falling forward like he’s acting on a command, and Iwaizumi lingers, licks heat against the knob at the top of Oikawa’s spine and against the smooth curve of his neck as his fingers slide down taut stomach towards the radiant heat of Oikawa’s cock. He can feel the way Oikawa tenses at the skim of his fingers, even if the sound in his throat stalls voiceless on the strain, can feel the other’s reaction in the arch of his back and the way he clenches hard on the slick thrust of Iwaizumi’s cock into him. It makes Iwaizumi groan, giving voice to the heat for both of them, and when he closes his hand into a fist around Oikawa’s length he can feel the other start to shake before he’s even moved.

“Fuck,” Iwaizumi offers, rushed and incoherent as he jerks Oikawa off, drags his strokes into a rhythm to match the too-fast angle of his hips as he fucks into him. There’s salt on his lips, sweat catching against his hairline and threatening the dip between his shoulderblades, and the air in the room is going sticky with heat, humid like it’s summertime come early, like Oikawa’s turning himself to the sun in Iwaizumi’s hold. “ _Fuck_.”

“Hajime,” Oikawa chokes, voice converting to incandescence, hands fisting on the sheets. Under his fingers Iwaizumi can feel him flushing harder, a precursor to pleasure as good as a statement. “ _Harder_.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t have words anymore. He can’t spare the voice for what he could say, can’t spare the thought for what he should do. All he can do is growl sound over Oikawa’s skin, drag the friction-heat of his hold up over the burn of Oikawa’s cock, and when he thrusts forward to jolt Oikawa over the sheets he can feel the other’s body seize into the tension that gives him away better than a groan. Oikawa comes silently, mouth open on the air he’s not breathing and his whole body shivering taut under Iwaizumi’s, but Iwaizumi growls, a rumble of nearly-pained satisfaction as his resistance crumbles into heat and the sound in his throat turns to “ _Tooru_ ,” everything in his awareness melting into warm and white and the salt at his lips. Oikawa manages a breath, offers it up immediately into a moan that Iwaizumi can feel up the whole length of his spine, but he can’t think around the thud of satisfaction taking over his heartbeat, can’t focus except on the infinity of warmth undoing everything he is into electricity as he comes.

Iwaizumi comes back into himself slowly, smoothly, a wave rolling back in to reinstate his awareness of his surroundings; he’s still pressed so close to Oikawa he can’t tell which of them is giving and which is receiving the heat pinned between them, still has his mouth dragging across sweat-slick skin. His fingers are sticky, his hold still bracing at Oikawa’s cock, but Oikawa’s gone slack under him, all the tension along his spine given way to the pant of not-quite-hyperventilation against the sheets.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” Iwaizumi says without pulling away, with the words humming at his lips and into Oikawa’s hair. “Idiot.”

Oikawa’s laugh is weak, shaky and hot and so sincere Iwaizumi can feel the ache of it against his spine, the crush of sudden affection it brings more than his defenses can handle right now.

“I’m fine,” Oikawa says, turns his head so Iwaizumi can see the weight of his eyelashes when he blinks, the curve of a smile too soft to be studied at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t need to worry about me, Hajime.”

“I’m not worried,” Iwaizumi growls, but he can feel himself smiling as he shifts his hand to Oikawa’s hip, as he leans in towards the soft of his lips. “ _Tooru_.”

Oikawa’s smile is turning to a laugh when Iwaizumi’s lips catch his.


End file.
